The Dark Side
by Gandalf3213
Summary: Collections of brotherly one-shots taking place after various episodes. Usually only Dean and Sam, with random appearences by other characters. Chap Three: Post Shadow: Dean doesn't know what he'd do if he did not have to hunt.
1. Skin

**A/N: This chapter takes place immediately after the season 1 episode "skin". Basically, what would happen if Sam wasn't so well-adjusted and was suddenly frightened of Dean?**

_"…Deep down I never really fit in."_

_"Well, that's 'cause you're a freak." **Sam and Dean, "Skin"**_

Sam glanced at Dean, who was gripping the steering wheel in a half-hearted kind of way, eyes and mind up towards the sky. Still, there was something to be said for a brother's instincts. "Quit looking at me, bro." Dean murmured, flinging one hands towards Sam's arm.

It was something automatic, a left over knee-jerk response that came out of near-death experiences. Sam flinched away, pressed himself against the door. Every feeling he'd had for the last sixty miles came to him in a rush. "Don't touch me!" He snarled, as tough as he could get, hand already clenched in a fist.

Dean looked directly at him, eyes wide, mouth part open in surprise. "Sammy…"

Whatever it was that had snapped in Sam refused to leave. He was looking at Dean --- he knew it was Dean --- but he couldn't shake the feeling that it was also, impossibly, the demon, the twice-damned shifter. "Just…give me a second."

The road was a clear, empty expanse in front of them, equally deserted behind. Dean pulled over to the side, put the car in park, made everything stop to look at Sam.

"'M sorry, Dean, keep going." Still, something was missing from the scene. Sam's eyes no longer had that innate, impractical trust that had always been placed in Dean. He barely even looked at the older man. "Really, I'm okay."

"Hell you are." Dean's voice came out low, cold, menacing. All wrong, to Sam. He flinched again, straightened himself out.

"Keep going."

Dean ran a hand through his dark hair, a habit he'd long forgotten. He hadn't meant to sound like that, hadn't meant to be so…mean, impatient, whatever. He was just so angry. Not at Sam --- even when Sam deserved it, Dean could never stay mad at him. Not even when they were kids. "Listen, little brother, I would never…you know it wasn't me back there. You told me that you knew it wasn't me."

Sam seemed to get only one thing out of that sentence. "Don't call me that."

"What?"

In response, Sam unlocked the door and got out, squinting in the bright day light. Dean mirrored this on the other side of the car, never taking his eyes off the boy. "Don't call me little brother."

"Why?" Reduced to questions, single syllables, desperately trying to figure this all out. He'd been calling Sam that since Sam was a baby…he'd remembered being four, looking forward to having a baby brother. Looking forward to it. That was something he would never be caught dead telling Sam, or anyone else for that matter.

Sam still looked distressed, still wouldn't meet Dean's unsettlingly direct gaze. "That's what he called me."

An irrational wave of frustration and anger rolled through the older Winchester. What right did that spirit have, anyway? Who was he to make his brother more paranoid than he already was? Demons were the reasons they were so screwed up in the first place --- both of them. Dean was honest enough with himself to realize that he was pretty much in the same boat as his brother, there, as a freak of nature.

It wasn't fair, really, none of it. But Sam should never, ever be afraid of him, Dean, the older brother. It was Dean's birthright to be protective, over-protective, whatever it took to keep Sam out of danger. How could he do that if Sam had been roughed up by his twin for the better of three hours?

Dean hesitated for a fraction of a second --- he wasn't good at this kind of thing, psychology and all that junk. Sam was Mr. Joe College here. Still, he took a deep breath, rounded the top of the car, was within three feet of Sam and didn't come any closer. "You know how I ended up tied down in that sewer?" He was aware that this was another question, but it was actually leading to a somewhat intelligent conversation that would, hopefully, ultimately get them out of this heat, in the car, going somewhere together.

"No." Sam still wasn't looking at him. This hurt Dean right where he claimed his heart wasn't.

"He looked like you, little bro." Sam didn't flinch at the nickname, which was good because Dean liked it. Liked to rib Sam, remind him who was older, remind him that there was someone in this world that shared the same path and blood. "Came right up to me in the street, cool as anything."

"You guess?"

"Of course." He would never admit weakness, and this was actually truth. Mostly. "You're pretty much one of a kind, Sammy. Not even that mind-reading bastard could imitate your particular brand of freak." Was it the heat or was that a smirk? Sam always did like his sense of humor. That used to come in handy.

Sam talked. He didn't look at Dean, didn't even look in his direction, but he talked. "When I was in that room…he knocked me out a couple of times. I don't know….I mean, I knew it wasn't you." He glanced at Dean, quickly, a hopeless, lost-puppy look.

Usually Dean was against the chick-flick, teenaged girl type of mush, but sometimes it was necessary, especially when your brother half-believed you had wanted him dead. "Sam…bro, you know I'd never hurt you. Not permanently, anyway." He looked pointedly at the partially healed cuts that littered Sam's arms, the larger gashes that were hidden by his shirt.

Sam continued as if Dean hadn't spoken. "I knew it wasn't you, but you --- it --- kept talking. I almost believed it, near the end, when he was on top of me. I didn't fight back because I didn't want to kill you." Something was left unspoken, unsaid. Neither Dean nor Sam ever acknowledged the fact that if one of them died both of them would. There just would be no point in living any more.

"It wasn't me." That tactic obviously wasn't working, so what would. "What did it say to you?"

This time Sam's glance was nervous, almost protective. "Nothing interesting. Nothing I can remember." Bull. Sam had the best memory Dean knew.

"You're lying." Dean called easily, hard. "Spill."

Finally brown eyes met grey, stayed there. "He said some stuff about you…resenting me. For leaving."

Dean froze.

This was, of course, completely true. Dean did --- had --- resented Sam for leaving, for going to college living a life. Of course, now that he'd finally gotten Sammy to look at him he had to look away.

Dean opened his mouth, shut it again, couldn't find the words. What was he supposed to say, "Yes, Sam, I hate you for leaving me?" While true, they were cold, callous, and more than a little childish, however rational. He'd lost his mother at four, his father had ditched him even after they'd worked together for years, but Sammy…he'd always thought Sam would be there, if only for Dean to protect.

There had been times…more than a few times…when Dean wished Sam would be miserable at college, as empty as Dean was with him gone, and come back. That was immature. He'd wanted Sammy back as a companion, as someone to take some of the responsibility that seemed to be settling more heavily on Dean's suddenly-too-small shoulders.

So the truth was officially scrapped. Dean chanced a look at Sam. The puppy-dog look was gone, replaced with curiosity and something that was coming all-too-familiar in those eyes.

"Look, bro, it isn't your fault that you're afraid of me." Ha, he'd changed the subject. "You know, you seem to have a knack for feeling guilty 'bout things that you can't control, no matter how much you want to."

It was Sam who took a step forward. The gap between them became smaller. "I'm still sorry."

"Idiot." This is where he usually tousled Sam's hair, punched his arm, had some physical contact. They weren't quite there yet.

Sam didn't feel like playing, still had an agenda to get everything out in the open. "What about your nightmares?"

Dean froze, thought back to the previous night after all the crap with the shape-shifter. God, he hadn't even known Sam was awake, didn't know how he could be awake will all those pain killers Dean had given him. "It's nothing. You're the one who won't come near me."

Sam took another step. Dean hated to admit that he had to lift his chin a little to look his little brother in the eye, but it was true. Sam was about three inches taller than him. It would have been unfair if Dean hadn't been the more handsome of the two. They were almost touching now. "Tell me." Realizing he was in no position to give orders, Sam's voice softened, pleaded with the same old kicked-puppy look. "Please. I'll guess if you don't."

Guessing would drag up a lot of old, long-buried memories that Dean didn't particularly want back. "I…I don't know. It was a long day, I was having a bad night, having to wake up every hour to make sure you hadn't died on me. Freakin' concussion boy." Great, Dean, he mentally kicked himself as soon as the words were out of his mouth, just make him feel even more guilty.

Sam saw right through him. The kid was psychic or something. "You were dreaming about killing yourself."

Dean was a good liar. He made good money from betting in poker. Still, he wanted to get out of this heat, wanted to be in the car with his brother an not have Sammy look at him like he was some kind of monster. "Yeah. Yeah, I might have dreamt about that. What does it mean, Mr. Psych 101?"

"Can't be one of the most normal experience, killing yourself?"

Dean gave a short, barking laugh. "Normal isn't part of our lifestyle, bro. We're freaks of nature, remember?"

"Yeah." Sammy smirked, crossed the remaining distance between them. "Freak." He slapped Dean on the shoulder with no force. A three-year-old could have done better. Still….

"Jerk." Reaching over, still somewhat cautious, Dean tousled Sam's hair, causing the younger boy to duck, not flinch, out of the way.

"Asshole." The word was punctuated by a yawn as Sam's next blow landed feather-light on Dean's chest.

Dean gently removed the hand, noticing at once both how tired his brother really had been and how much weight he'd lost in the past months. He would rectify both problems as soon as he could. "Get in the car, bitch."

Sammy yawned, opened one dark eye knowingly. "Love you, Dean."

Later, when the car was moving and both Dean and Sam were full of Johnny Rocket's burgers, the older boy glanced over a Sam, sleeping in the passenger seat. He always looked so vulnerable, much younger than his twenty-two years. Dean smiled and smoothed back Sam's matted hair. "Love you too, little bro."

**Ah, Dean's our macho man, though you have to say that any brother willing to go through all Dean did is worth something. **

**I totally forgot how much we love this series until we started writing this. One shots are the perfect length for wrapping up the loose ends of the episodes. **

**Anyway, please review.**


	2. Asylum

_"You're not going to try to kill me, are you?"_

_"No."_

_"Good, 'cause that would be awkward." **Dean and Sam, Asylum**_

"Dean…" It was the fifth time in an hour Sam had said that, the fifth time he'd looked at him with those puppy dog eyes. Dean glanced at him in the mirror and, for the fifth time, had to look away.

Still, an old, protective instinct welled up in him. His voice came out worried, compassionate. It was a tone he used so often that he barely thought of it any more. "What is it, Sammy?"

He didn't balk at the use of the childish nickname. If anything, he tensed, eyes wide, guilty once again of a crime he didn't commit. "Dean, I'm sorry."

"You've already said that, bro. Really, just…just drop it, okay?" He couldn't do this, not now. He closed his eyes for a second --- the open expanse of road wasn't going anywhere.

_Do you think you can kill your own brother?_ God, he was lucky he'd taken the bullets out. He hadn't expected Sam to pull the trigger, not in a million years. Y_ou really hate me that much?_

"I don't hate you." Must be that new ESP thing. Kid really got in his head sometimes.

"Get out of my head, Sammy. Just leave it."

Sam touched his arm and Dean melted, like always. He could never resist Sam. He remembered when they were younger, before Sam even knew he had different smiles, different ways to get what he wanted. Now he was even worse. He knew just how to break Dean.

"I don't... I never did. All those other times I said it. I could never hate you, Dean."

Dean concentrated ont he road, on the song playing low and solemn in the background. The _other_ times. Sam five...maybe six, when he'd first said he hated Dean. The last time he said it was right before he left for college. It was one of the last things Dean remembered about his brother, and that killed him.

Always it was Sam. Dean was no saint, not even close, but he was slower to anger than his volatile brother, quicker to reconcile, too. Sam was prouder, more stubborn, always on to the next challenge, unable to grasp what Dean knew instinctively: Family mattered, everything else took the back seat.

Dean would die for his brother. Almost had...almost had been forced to. He didn't mind dying. Not really. He had come to terms with that fate long ago, willing to die if it meant protecting Sam or his father, if he went out with a bang (ha. That was as close to irony as Dean usually got). No, he wasn't afraid of dying. In that second, when Sam had stared at him, when his finger had squeezed the trigger, he'd been afraid of being killed by one of only people Dean truly loved.

He'd never tell Sammy that. Maybe Dean was prideful, too. Manly toughness and all that...it kept the two brothers apart.

Sam didn't know when to let things die, didn't seem to understnad what 'leave it' meant. "I still...I can see it, you know. I know it's weird. I know that after most possesions people don't remember much of anything. But I remember shooting you."

Dean felt Sam's eyes on him, on his chest. He had worn his jacket but no shirt, able to be honest enough with himself to admit that yes, it really did hurt that much. Bandages only made the bruises worse, and bandages did nothing anyway. His entire torso was one bruise, deeper and larger than what Dean had expected, making it painful even to breathe. So that was what it felt like to have salt rubbed in a wound.

"Lucky it was only salt." Dean muttered, still physically unable to let his brother beat himself up over this. "Look, Sammy, I'm a big boy. I can take care of myself. Was doing it for almost four years before you joined." Not a stretch, Dean had always liked hunting more that Sammy, had jumped at every chance he could get and that had totalled out to a respectable amount more than Sam. "So just...don't worry."

"It almost wasn't." Honestly, Sam didn't make sense. "Salt. It almost wasn't. You...you gave me your gun. Why?"

"I'd already emptied it, dipshit. I knew it wasn't loaded." Duh. Sometimes Sam seemed really dense. The simpliest facts always escaped him. It was almost as if he _tried_ to make everything harder than it was. Almost immediately, his father's voice sounded in his head. How often had his father told them to "work smarter, not harder?" Dean thought of that almost every day, could actually _hear_ his dad say the words.

Obviously, that was anothing thing Sam never heard, never bothered to pay attention to.

Sam ran a hand through his hair in a way that mirrored Dean's habit exactly. The older boy didn't miss this. "I...I saw you flinch."

He had been hoping that Sam would convenietly forget that part of the the whole deal. Yes, he had flinched. Not at the fear of the bullet biting flesh but at the utter shock of having Sam --- his Sammy --- pull the trigger. Of the deaths he had imagined, the ways he'd thought he'd go out, that wasn't one of them, wasn't even a blip on the radar. For that one second, it was as if the impossibility of the action would somehow just kill him, because if Sam really wanted him dead, then Dean would die. Plain and simple.

Dean's love for his brother, his utter devotion to the surprisingly grown-up child next to him, was fairly simple, almost completely straight forward. Saying all that _while_ not making Sam feel guilty_ while_ trying to convince himself_ while_ not making himself into a complete fool...that was harder.

Before the right words came out, before a coherent sentance even formed, Sam said another, mind boggling thing. "I also...I don't think you're pathetic, Dean. I...Well, it's almost the opposite. I kind of _admire_ you. I'm _jealous_ of your faith in dad."

That was pretty damn close to a complete apology. Dean would always blame it on the bruises that covered a quarter of his body, but his voice was a little hoarse for the next few minutes. "I don't think you're pathetic either, Sam."

Sam threw him a look of utmost loathing tht was completely negated by the joyous, wondering look in his eyes. Forgiveness was easy with the Winchesters. It was something Dean dolled out in copious amounts, something all brothers had to use at one point or another. Peace offerings were small words, inside jokes, the last cookie. With the Winchesters, it could never be very straightforward. What was the fun in that?

**So re-watching the series with the other three on top of it, everything makes a lot more sense. Like the pilot. Actually, the pilot is kind of funny. If you ever have a chance to TiVo it or something, we strongly recommend it, just to see the two guys deck it out for the first time. **

**As always, please review. **


	3. Shadow

**Summary: After Shadow, Dean thinks about what he would do if he wasn't hunting demons. **

_"But there's got to be something you want for yourself."_

_"Yeah, I don't want you to leave the second this thing's over." **Sam and Dean**_

"I don't know." Dean said suddenly, making Sam look at him. The younger boy was half-way through cleaning the dried blood off his face. He had already attempted to clean Dean up before the older boy shrugged him off.

"What?" Neither had talked for over twenty minutes, both reverting within themselves. Heck, they needed to. It wasn't every day you find your dad after looking for him for over eight months. It wasn't every day he split.

Dean sighed and pushed his hair back, forgetting about the cuts and bruises just below it. He managed to let out nothing but a hiss, though the injuries hurt to no end. This was _exactly_ the type of conversation Dean went out of his way to avoid, and here he was starting it up, like a….teenage girl, or something. "I don't know what I'd do it if I wasn't doing this. Hunting demons, I mean."

Sam seemed to be very intent on a large gouge on the inside of his arm; he didn't look up at Dean, didn't attempt to meet his eye. And Dean was thankful for that. "Don't you have any…hobbies?"

"Kid, this business doesn't leave time for much anything else. What am I gonna do, sit around at night painting and shit?" This was said part sarcastically, part degradingly. God, he wished he wasn't on the move all the time, that he could settle in a place for more than a few nights. Heck, a month would be alright with him.

"You could…read. Or…." Sam's voice trailed off as he officially ran out of hobbies that did not require a large amount of non-portable items. "I don't know, Dean, what did you do when we were kids? For fun, I mean?"

Dean thought about this. Their childhood had been turbulent, to say the least. They'd moved three or four times every school year and usually ended up staying with Pastor Jim or other friends during Summer holidays. With all the moving, you made sure not to get attached to much of anything, though Dean did remember Sam joining several clubs, and the kid had always been book-ish, likable.

"I don't know, Sammy. With all the moving and dad being gone, it wasn't like I could exactly go out for the basketball team or anything." God, why had he even brought the subject up? It just made him out to be what he must have looked like in high school --- a loser with no purpose.

It wasn't like he hadn't been popular. In almost every school he went to he made friends without even trying, unwanted friends for the most part, since he knew he'd be leaving them in a month or two. But with Sam at home and their dad away, he'd been pushed into the highly uncalled-for position of surrogate father on top of being the over protective big brother.

"You made me go out for basketball." Sam was indignant and Dean had to smile. They had been living in a small town in New Jersey, of all places, and Dean had convinced Sam to go out for the highly unsuccessful Junior-High basketball team.

"I hated it." Sam whined, acting as the child he had been twelve years ago when first pushed onto the team.

Dean punched him playfully. "No, you didn't. Plus you needed something to bulk you up a little, you pussy." Dean had gone to all of Sam's games that year, and every one had been on a Friday night. Their father hadn't seen one.

Sam remembered that, too. "You watched all my games."

"Just to see you fall, kiddo. I still remember that one time to put the ball in the other team's basket…I think that was the only shot you made all season."

"No, I mean, you were at every one of them, and home every night when I got home…"

"Because you were all of nine, man."

"And you were all of thirteen." As if it had _just_ dawned on him. "Playing dad didn't leave much time for picking up hobbies, huh?"

"Or picking up chicks." Dean admitted, grudgingly. "You held me back, Sammy. Only one or two girls a week."

"Must have been rough for you." Sam actually stuck his tongue out at Dean, and the older boy had to laugh, though stopped when it hurt too much. He really ought to let Sam drive so he could get a hold of that First Aid kit. "But you still must have been into _something_."

"Some of us actually _like_ hunting, Sammy, twisted as it sounds." And Dean did, he really did. Hunting was exhilarating and anxious and fearful and fun, like being drunk or high (although if asked, he'd never been the latter). But could he see himself doing this when he was his father's age, to have no wife or kids or place to call home other than the Impala? If Sam's promise to leave was true, he'd have no Sam either.

Sam's hand touched his and a cool cloth dug into a long gouge on his upper arm. "'M sorry, Dean."

"What for?" Sam had nothing to apologize for. He had a life. That was what Dean had always wanted for him, more than he'd ever hoped to give his baby brother.

"For making you take care of me."

"Somebody had to, and after the zoo wouldn't take you back after the second or third time I brought you there…."

"You think you're real funny, don't you?" Dirt, dried blood, and other assorted debris was wiped out of the gash and blood flowed freely for a second before a bandage was applied.

Through clenched teeth, Dean managed to reply, "Only because I am, little bro. You're just to juvenile to realize it."

Sam moved to Dean's head, hands gentle even as his words came across teasingly, "I found a profession for you after you give all this demon hunting a rest."

"Yeah? What?" Dean's hand swatted Sam away of its own accord as the younger man pressed hard against the wound, drawing tears to Dean's eyes.

"A stand-up comedian."

Dean took the washcloth from Sam and threw it at the boy, who was smiling, "Oh, now look who thinks their funny."

"I'll come to all your shows." Sam promised quietly and Dean had to look at him. Maybe Sam understood. Maybe…

**Yeah, maybe. It's fairly obvious we like Dean, and we're pretty biased. It's hard not to take advantage of his awesome character...**

**Please, please review.**


	4. Faith

**Summary: Because Faith had more than a few missing moments…**

"_We still have options."_

"_What options? Burial or cremation? I'm going to die. And you can't stop it."_

"_Watch me." __**Sam and Dean, Faith.**_

Once, when Sam was perhaps twelve and their father was on a hunt, Dean had landed in the hospital.

It was an unnecessary nuisance; there had been a very, _very_ small zombie in their new motel's front bedroom and Dean had taken a swing at it before it could take a swing at Sammy. The thing was killed, no doubt about that. It had definitely ended up on the worse end of the deal. And for a twelve-year-old, Sam could patch up his big brother like no body's business.

No, it wasn't the injuries that were the problem, it was the uncharacteristically concerned tenth-grade humanities teacher. She was the one who'd sent Dean to the hospital and had a whole freakin' mess of social workers, state workers, and psychologists waiting there.

So it was at the ripe age of sixteen that Dean learned how to sneak out of a hospital. The art was to look as if you weren't sick, and/or in need of care. This was actually much easier to pull off with a life-threatening heart defect that with an array of cuts and bruises.

Moving through the hospital corridors was easy for Dean Winchester. Despite his inbred aversion to the places, he'd landed in these buildings more times than was completely necessary for a twenty-six year old. They were all laid out in the same general pattern, as if the contractors had merely taken the original design and flipped it on its head, or turned some of the rooms around.

Because he was dressed in "civilian" clothes, smuggled in by Sam after Dean had raised hell about wearing the robes they dispensed at the hospital, people barely glanced at him. One candy-striper smirked at him, flirtatious for a seventeen-year-old. Dean, even with a time bomb ticking in his chest, gave a reflexive grin in return.

Dean's pace quickened as he neared the exit. The reason for his escape was twofold. First and foremost, he would not, could not spend the rest of his days in a hospital filled to brim with people who couldn't give a half damn about him.

Second…well, maybe his was the most important. It was what made Dean get out of the relative comfort of the bed, stagger upright, and head for the exit. It was what made the heart he'd always claimed wasn't there twist with the nervousness of betrayal…

Sam hadn't seen him in three days. Three days without so much as a word, a phone call, a text message. Some part of Dean said that was for the best, that the kid shouldn't have to hang around for a month waiting for his big brother to kick the bucket.

A larger part of him, the part buried beneath the shields acquired from seeing too much wickedness in the world, wished that Sam hadn't taken off, not without saying goodbye. Did these last couple of months mean less to Sammy than they had to Dean? Had his little brother not been having…if not fun, than at the least the excitement, the thrill of the chase and the hunt, the…the comfortable feeling of companionship, of brotherhood that had been growing stronger with each day?

"_Looks like you're going to leave town without me."_

"_What are you talking about? I'm not going to leave you here."_

Dean instinctively stopped the thought process there, labeling the whole train of thought as too mushy and moving on. For phase two of breaking out of the hospital without being noticed, he needed transportation. When he was sixteen, he had been heading back to the crappy motel he'd shared with his brother and, occasionally, their father at the time. Now..,

Where was he going now? Dean paused, leaning one hand against the bus schedule for support. Sam would have taken the Impala; it was the only thing he really got as an inheritance from his brother. Plus, Dean had all but thrown it at him;_ "Hey, you better take care of that car or I'm going to kick your ass."_

"_I don't think that's funny."_

"_Oh, well. It's a bit funny."_ Sam never did think Dean's particular brand of irony was very amusing, but what did the kid know? He'd basically been raised ender a rock, and college had done nothing in furthering his education in humor.

Still, Dean was left with the problem of no transportation, nowhere to go once he acquired the first part…Sam wouldn't have left anything at the motel. They were too careful, too paranoid about covering any tracks they left behind.

Nevertheless, the next bus that pulled up Dean got into, saying the address of the motel without thinking. Well, dying in a motel was better than dying in a hospital, anyway. But he would still be alone.

Dean's half-closed eyes opened wide at that stray thought. He had never, ever worried about being alone. He and Sammy had been taught from a young age not to trust anyone, not even (almost especially) their father. That lesson had mutated in Dean, making him unable to be completely comfortable around strangers, any stranger. He preferred being alone.

Which is why the sudden wish for company caught him off guard.

Having nothing better to do on the twenty-minute bus ride, Dean did a bit of soul-searching, though if anyone, especially Sammy, asked, he would deny it to his death day. But he did look inside himself, find his inner child, all that psyche crap. Why the heck didn't Dean want to be alone when he died? That was the most peaceful way to go.

He'd never wanted to be a hero. He hated it when people looked at him as if he was something special, something to be admired. Sammy had always looked at him like that. But Dean was nothing special. He just did what he thought was right as often as he could. He would go down swinging…

Not lying in a bed.

And immediately Dean knew what he'd do during his last days. He wouldn't seek out Sam (this was going against a part of him, a large part of him that mysteriously craved the freak's company). He wouldn't continue the fruitless quest for their father (this, for some reason, wasn't met with as much resistance as not looking for Sam). He would get to the hotel and turn right around, going off to find one last hunt.

He was a hunter, a stalker, a killer of all things other-worldly. No way was his own heart going to stop him now. He'd go down swinging, taking as many monsters as he could with him. And maybe then the world will have been a little better off for having Dean Winchester walk on it, albeit for a short time.

When the bus stopped, though, and Dean had a chance to get off at the motel or stay on as the vehicle kept going straight to the edge of town, eh got off. There was some gut instinct telling him that staying on the bus was the wrong thing to do. Dean had only survived to the old age of twenty-six on gut instincts. So he got off.

On weary feet, he made his way to the second story, the room he and Sam had stayed in a lifetime ago before Dean's own body turned on him. Dean realized he didn't have a key and found himself knocking, somewhat uselessly, on a door that had to conceal an empty room.

Seconds later, the door opened. Dean had never been more surprised to see anyone in his life, and felt his mouth fall open a centimeter or so before he caught himself. "What the hell are you doing here?" Dean resolved to teach his baby brother better manners in the future. Thankfully, the kid stepped aside and Dean went into the room. He was starting to feel dizzy, and his chest was sore. Not half as painful as some of the wounds he'd gotten in that area, but sore.

"Checked myself out." Dean said easily, trying not to look surprised as his brother's, well, _existence_. Everything in Dean had said that Sammy would be hundreds of miles away by now.

Smiling wryly to himself as Sam berated him gently for not offering himself to death on a silver platter, Dean realized that that he had never expected Sam to leave. Not really. The kid was crazy about him, and they both knew it. The fact that he'd been researching potential cures for a fatal wound was proof enough.

Later that night, when the curtains were drawn tight and a gun was propped by the door and on the nightstand, Dean woke to find a hand on his chest. Without opening his eyes he reached for the gun reflexively, hand shaking.

"It's okay, it's just me." Dean's mouth twitched at the sound of Sam's voice even as his hand feebly swatted the boy away. "Wha' you want? You okay?"

His eyes were open all the way, now, and he studied Sam, remembering that this boy was four years younger than him. Twenty-two years old. He had seen enough to be fifty. Dean had seen Sam all layers of the word 'scared', but nothing like this, nothing that brought that level or sadness to his eyes, that compassion to his voice.

"Did you ever think it would end like this?" Sam asked quietly, hand still resting near Dean's reluctantly beating heart.

"Seriously? No. Never." The possibility that he wouldn't die in battle hadn't even occurred to him. Now that the situation presented itself, Dean didn't know what to do, what to say to lessen Sam's pain. "I'll be okay."

"Stubborn ass." Sam said quietly, the words coming out in a strangled sob. "Your heart's too big."

And lying there in the dark hours of the morning, Dean believed him. No one's heart should be big enough to hold this much sorrow, or love, or….damnit, but it was there…._hope_.

**Dean never thinks he means anything to Sam. I label it as 'older brother complex'. **

**As always, please review. **


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